


Home Is

by Trashratsaws



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Relationship Study, cryptid AU, pure fluff just absolutely nothing but fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashratsaws/pseuds/Trashratsaws
Summary: immortal!Dream and au!George live in a home they have spent a lot of time and love building together. Here are some snapshots of a day in their life.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Home Is

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you're unfamiliar with this AU, Dream is an immortal who got stuck in a well for a hundred years, George is from another reality just slightly different from this one. Their relationship grows through the ways they help each other work through their disconnect from the world around them, hence the many mentions of either of them being "out of touch." It's a beautiful AU, highly recommend @TinyDemonWriter 's writing on it. Pure poetry. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

The morning sun creeping in through the shuttered windows graced Dream’s bare skin like thin lines of honey, or sugar-scented wax, soft and warm. Once a ray bounced off his lashes, he was awakened to the soft hum of the house coming alive. The birds nesting in the rafters high above the dining room were beginning to stretch their wings and sing morning songs, and all of the trinkets and things scattered about the house seemed to stir with the anticipation of being admired once again throughout the day. 

Perhaps, Dream thought as his senses began to awaken with him, he would spend today rummaging through the attic, finding something interesting to show George or a nice looking shiny thing to occupy the empty spaces on his nightstand. 

He took a deep breath in, smelling the smell of home - warmth and familiarity and a little bit of olive oil and the scent of old leather and dust - and the still, dry air of the morning. His eyes dragged slow and calm over the skin of George’s back, counting freckles and the limitless perfection of the smooth, blemish-less surface. He ran his hand along it - the one that wasn’t tucked under George‘s chest - feeling at peace tracing circles between his shoulder blades as they slowly rose and fell. 

George stirred, humming a soft noise as he moved to turn his head towards Dream. His eyes caught the light like a stained glass window, turning from brown to warm red and honey gold and the pretty colour of earth and bark, though they still dropped from the sleepiness that lingered. His soft smile was enough to put all the warmth in Dream’s heart that he’d need all day. Paired with the scratch in George’s voice that always came with early morning grogginess, enough to last him a week at least. 

“Happy morning,” said George, tone deepened by the early hour and the late night they had spent, voice laced with affection and fondness. Dream’s smile reflected the yearning in his chest. He reached his hand out to gently move a stand of golden brown hair out of golden brown eyes, and let it linger there, cupping linen-soft skin with care and simple ease. He leaned forward ever slightly, feeling the nerves on his body awaken at the sensation of the sheets shifting on his bare arms and chest, and planted a chaste kiss on George’s forehead, taking all the time in the world to revel in the way the mere contract made him feel soft and complete. 

“Good morning.” 

* * *

With time and a slow and easy pace, the house began to smell more like the daytime - like steamed linens and freshly brewed coffee. George forwent the bother of shoes or socks just to feel the medium-warm tiles of the hallway floor against his bare skin. It was clean, it was always clean, but it had the wear of many many years of collected dust, and so the colours of the clay were starting to dull to lovely shades of grey-red and grey-orange. The patterns of flowers opened up under the soles of his feet like the real plants that were lined up on the shelves in the conservatory, where Dream was sitting in his chair, looking out of the wall of windows and thinking of him. 

When George entered the room with two mugs ready in his hands, he watched the sun reflect the gold and strawberry tones in Dream’s hair before walking to him and handing him his coffee. Their arms interlaced and George felt the soft buzz of bare skin on bare, sun-touched skin. He relished in it a moment before taking his place beside Dream to bask in the light and talk about nothings while the sun climbed into the sky. 

* * *

Though the sun hardly ever reached the attic in the day, the dim yellow light of a dust-covered lightbulb was enough to be able to see the dull shimmer of old metal and refractions of broken and unbroken glass bottles that had once held many interesting things. George handed a bottle to Dream whose label detailed the ingredients for a long-outdated medicine. Dream tried reading them out to him, pronouncing half of them wrong for the sheer amount of syllables, and then gave up and became fascinated by a small bunch of fishing tackles hung up on a nail by the back wall. George turned his attention to watching Dream decide which one he’d like the best. 

None of the things in the attic were things that Dream or George ever remembered collecting, nor were they particularly interesting things. Bottles, rusted tools and pieces of metal, old things that were once used, older things that were reused once, maybe twice. Pieces of porcelain and glass and wood that were all indiscriminately old, aging timelessly whilst collecting dust and attic heat. Everyday items that had fallen into disrepair or disuse, and ended up never getting thrown away. They had all been here in this house before the two had made it a home - a real home for only them, full of these things and words and sun and stars. 

Sometimes, if there was a bottle or box with a label that George found interesting enough, Dream would place it carefully in his pocket and take it down the ladder to a shelf where he would make room for the thing to sit. And when George walked by again, he could look at it and think of something that made him feel like a grounded man, connected to the earth he walked on all the time. 

Today, the medicine bottle made its way next to a small clay figurine of a fisherman sitting on the moon, and a miniature plastic succulent. George had yet to organise this shelf, but once he did he would probably find a home for it in a cabinet somewhere, where he kept all the rest of the glass bottles with funny labels on them. 

* * *

On the walls of their home were maps. Old maps that were golding at the edges, with bronze-leaf accents on all the longitude and latitude lines, and all the capital cities of the world. Older maps still, that were mere sketches made by men who traveled the world and discovered it could have a shape of some sort. George was fascinated by these shapes. Sometimes, Dream would point at one of the lines that bordered the sea and describe exactly how the water touched the land there. A pale cliff face with jagged stones at the bottom, around which the water would dance and rage all through the high tide, or a mellow beach where the sand was as soft as silk and the ocean was as clear and bright as it were made of glass, where the waves rippled and murmured soft sounds as the sunlight bounced through them. 

One map, plastered high on the wall of the living room, was drawn all over, in many different colors, and the shape of it seemed to always change. It was the map of the valley. This odd congregation of rolling green and sweeping scarlett evenings where they had made their home. To one corner was Sapnap’s grove, labeled in green and silver by Wilbur, but where Nikki and Karl had once taken every color they could find to draw flowers and fun shapes. Beside was the pond, where Quackity spent his time splashing around and making a mess that always cleaned itself up somehow. To another was Wilbur’s library, George’s second favorite place in the world, drawn on the map as a small, cabin-like shack. It looked that way in real life too, though inside was much bigger, and Dream had once explained to George that it was an oddity in this one for buildings to be that way. 

There was another map - the only one framed - on the wall opposite this masterpiece. One George had hand drawn himself.

“Show me what yours looks like?” Dream had asked. George thought it’d come out a bit sloppy, but when he was feeling out of touch, Dream would take him to the living room and trace his fingers along the lines and ask him about what colors he saw, and by the time George’s hands were covered lightly in graphite and pastels, he was back at home in his arms. 

* * *

When the sun reached its peak and began its descent, George found an old picture album and spent a good long while flipping through its pages, utterly fascinated, while Dream sat next to him, only paying attention to the way George’s eyes lit up every time he tuned a page. It was filled with photos that someone else had taken, long ago. Some were even in black and white. There was one of people dancing to music from a live band, one of two lovers watching a sunset, one of a table set for Christmas - or maybe Thanksgiving. There were photos of empty roads at night, of bare trees in the winter, of fruits in a bowl. 

“Look at this one!” He’d say. Dream would look, and then look back at him, and he would smile. 

“Very pretty, George,” he’d say, not referring to the photos at all. 

* * *

The evening light took on a red hue as the sun began to disappear. It splayed into the room and through the glass bottles that hung from the living room ceiling, causing shards of rainbow coloured light to paint the walls off the hallway and the adjacent kitchen’s tall windows. The dull flowers on the floor tiles came to life and the light wrapped around stacks of books and shelves full of things like the roots of a tree. George felt himself floating through the space, feeling the contentment and easy joy fill his body and linger in the air as he sighed. 

From a small distance Dream watched him, watched his arms spread gently out as if he really were levitating off the ground and trying to find his balance up there. Watched him spin around slowly, dancing with himself, enjoying being able to breathe the air and feel the warmth of the sun on his arms. Watched as he stepped around carefully, making use of space that he’d pushed back the furniture from, placing one foot in front of the other, in front of, behind, to one side, to another. Watched as he closed his eyes so that he could truly hear, smell, feel the world around him. Watched as he began to hum an unfamiliar tune, where each note sounded to Dream like it was sung in an odd and undiscovered key, but really that was just what music was supposed to sound like to George. 

Light was dripping from his hair and from his face and from his hands. He looked like he’d been highlighted in orange, a warm fiery glow surrounding him as he moved ethereally through the room, dancing under the glass bottles. Dream thought he wanted to hold him. To feel the presence of such a beautiful creature in his hands, be a part of this magical world he seemed to be living in. 

He moved with care across the empty space that separated them and caught George’s spinning hand once he’d come within reach. Their fingers interlaced immediately, and George opened his honey glazed eyes to look into Dream’s. One of them was turning a dull, beautiful blue in the light, one of their many miracles. Dream felt trapped in his gaze, felt the love in his heart was enough to willingly give himself to George for as long as they were both here, now. Together. 

George guided Dream’s hands slowly to rest at his sides while he slung his own arms over his neck. They began to sway in the silence, the only sound to accompany them being the soft jingle of the bottles above, doing their own slow dance up there, as the evening settled smoothly on their home. 

Gentle and gentler still, George moved Dream’s body with his own in some romantically simple version of a waltz, their gazes meeting and falling comfortably away every now and again. Dream’s hands never stopped moving on George’s sides, committing the shape of his body to memory, closing his eyes and still seeing him there, golden and perfect. It was blissful. Enchanted. Heavenly. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips like glass onto George’s. All for him, this one. 

George played around with his hair, twisting shimmering strands between his fingers as Dream explored the inside of his mouth, and all the while they swayed together. Everything - every point of contact between them - felt ablaze with heat and passion and love, pure love. 

Perfect, Dream thought. Perfect, perfect, perfect. 

* * *

As the sky changed colours, finally allowing the day to dissolve into the night, a mellow fog settled over the valley. The crickets that made their home on the front lawn began to harmonise, and the dining room birds were dozing off, no doubt already dreaming of the next blissful morning. The air smelled like damp grass and cold stones.

George’s back settled comfortably into the mess of sheets as Dream held him close and dear. They’d kissed for hours and would continue for more hours still, perfectly content to pass the time the way both of them knew how. 

“ _ Agápi mou _ ,” Dream whispered against George’s lips.  _ My darling. _

“ _ Agapité mou _ ,” George replied.  _ My dear _ . 

Beneath them the world on the ground fell away into a blur of darkening colours and disappearing lights and dimming silhouettes. Above them the world of the sky mixed the stars and the empty spaces between them together, into one beautiful mess of light and dark. Those beautiful pictures George liked to trace in the sky danced around formlessly, shouting in contentment and laughing as they rocked the scarlet blanket. 

The lion roared up there, but George didn’t hear it. He had his own lion right here. He had everything he ever needed here. 

Dream’s kisses made George melt into the fabric beneath him. His touch was hot - blazing with devotion as he carefully navigated George’s likes and wants. The fire in his chest nearly made the air feel cold around him, goosebumps rising on his skin. 

The music of the world made its way into them both, their moves becoming a delicate dance of emotion and action. The drag of hands on arms on hands on hips on legs seeking the comfort of each other suddenly came to rest on little things that brought familiarity and sweet, sweet satisfaction. George slipped off Dream’s ring, careful to place it on his nightstand so that he could find it in the morning. Dream reached up for George’s glasses and pulled them lightly out of his hair to place them aside. The gentleness in their touches grew with every movement, every inch traveled on one’s body by the other’s hands in pure devotion. It was worship, and it was beautiful. 

“ _ Eísai to spíti mou, _ ” said Dream, into George’s neck, drawing a deep, heated sigh from him. He dragged his teeth along the perfect skin. They immediately fell into a puddle of limbs and discarded clothes and sheets, feeling every blissful feeling all at once while the moon appeared outside, watching over it all with neutral serenity. This. This was it, they both thought, all on their own. All they ever wanted. 

_ You are my home _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you made it! I know there's a lot of prose and long paragraphs in this, so I'm sorry if it was hard to read, but I enjoyed writing it a lot! 
> 
> Hot tip for all my gays: When you yearn, turn the yearn into writing. You won't stop yearning but at least you made something!


End file.
